


A mari usque ad mare

by celestialteapot



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialteapot/pseuds/celestialteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the fourteenth of April that l received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room. - 'The Reigate Squires' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A mari usque ad mare

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on my [LJ](http://sherlock2040.livejournal.com/15469.html) \- Jan 7th 2007.

_On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the fourteenth of April that l received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room. - 'The Reigate Squires' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

“Holmes?” I cautiously pushed open the hotel door. 

I was unshaven and dishevelled from my journey, my clothing wrinkled and certainly in no state to stand in the grand hotel I found myself in. Thankfully the telegram I had received was enough to sway the gentleman who had stood before me that I did indeed have legitimate business there.

I dismissed the maid who had shown me up and stepped into the room. It was quite dark, the lamp was low casting strange dancing shadows upon the walls, despite the temperature I shivered.

The floor was ankle deep with discarded crumbled letters and telegrams, many lay unopened scattered amongst the debris “Holmes?” I ventured again, placing my medical bag upon the side-board and pushing aside many of the offending papers with my foot.

In the low light I could just make out my friend, in his shirt sleeves with more than a days stubble upon his chin, sitting on the floor his back against the side of the bed, his right knee raised in an almost languid action. 

I moved towards him and knelt at his side. His eyes were red-rimmed and staring darkly out of his pale lean face, fixed pointedly upon the wall opposite. I placed my hand upon his arm and spoke his name for a third time in a low voice, in response he thrust a crumpled telegram into my hands.

“Read it.” He commanded. There was something in his eyes that made me dare not disobey.

“Er...” I unfolded the telegram and began to read. “'My dear Mr Sherlock Holmes, please accept my firmest congratulations upon your recent successes, by God England needs more men like you protecting our fine shores.'”

“'Congratulations'!” My friend spat, his voice shaking with twisted rage and emotion. “Don't they know they are congratulating the biggest fool that ever walked God's Green Earth?!” He flung another telegram towards me, “read it!”

“Holmes...”

“Read it, man!”

I cleared my throat, “'My dear Sir I must send to you my warmest and sincerest congratulations...'” I stopped witnessing the effect this had upon my friend. He buried his face into his arm, his body tense, his shoulders shaking. I reached up and gently touched his shoulder, he pulled away from my touch.

“Leave me.” He said in a muffled voice. “Please...” 

It pained me to see my friend in such an agitated state, I knew that he was facing a desperate struggle as he tried to contain his tears. His breath came in deep ragged draws and I felt my own heart pounding heavily against my ribs, my chest tight with emotion. I had seen my friend in many a black mood during our years of friendship but this was more. 

It was clear that he was beyond exhaustion, his mental state broken and shattered. To this day he has not revealed to me the full extent of the investigation that brought him close to breakdown. Even the knowledge that he had triumphed where those had failed could not draw him from this bleak constitution that he was now enslaved to.

I adjusted my position, squatting for any length of time put an uncomfortable pressure upon my old wound and so I lowered myself into a sitting position next to my poor friend. Despite my own mind screaming at me to obey I was determined to ignore his pleas for me to leave him. I did not wish to witness my friend in such a state of collapse but I could not leave his side.

“It's all right.” I said kindly, placing my arm around his shoulders encouraging him to lean towards me. 

A sob escaped him and he began to break down, his long fingers grasped at my lapels, his face buried against my neck, his tears damp upon my collar. I clutched him against me caressing his arm with my free hand, stroking his slender shoulders gently, encouraging his tears within my embrace. 

For some time we sat together in this position, until my friends tears began to subside and he no longer shook. This was the first and last time during our long friendship that I had embraced my friend so, it would be the only time he would allow me to see him in such a terrible state of despair.

“It's all right.” I whispered softly against his ear, breaking the long silence. He drew away from me, pulling himself into a stand his hand pressed against the bed. I watched as he staggered towards the desk, his breath catching as he tightly gripped the edge of the chair in front, his knuckles white against the hard oak. 

“You're in pain.” I struggled to my feet, reaching for him. I caught him before he collapsed back upon the floor and gently lowered him into the chair. Ignoring his protests I slowly probed his abdomen with my fingers, his hissed in pain as I neared his left side. “When did you last eat?”

He waved me away with his hand, turning his face from mine. “It is of no consequence.” He replied through gritted teeth. 

I crossed the room to retrieve my stethoscope from my medical bag. “I'll be the judge of that, Holmes.” When I turned back to him I found that he had rested his head upon the desk, sighing I collected my medical bag and returned to kneel in front of him. Placing my hand gently upon his knee I changed my question. “When did you last sleep?” He did not reply merely brushing my hand from his knee. 

Standing I crossed to the bell and rang it sharply before returning to kneel by Holmes. His head rested wearily upon his left arm, his right clutched at his side, his breathing deep and shallow, I half thought for a moment that he may have fallen asleep but I soon realised that he was trying to control his emotions. No doubt he was angry with himself for his earlier breakdown and I knew there was nothing that I could do to comfort him.

From my experiences as a private physician in general practice, dealing with men such as Isa Whitney2 , a man so controlled by his addiction to opium that it often consumed him for days at a time and indeed from observing Holmes' alternating use of cocaine and morphine I had begun to specialise in the treatment of nervous illness3 particularly relating to uncontrolled addiction. 

I was fortunate that Holmes was left handed4, for it allowed me to take his right arm and gently push back his sleeve. To my relief there were no fresh puncture wounds upon the delicate skin, he jerked his arm away from me as I gently ran a finger along the old scars that covered his arm. Despite his addiction, Holmes had his habits and he would only inject himself in the arm. Of course I could not allow myself to believe that in his altered mental state he had not taken to other means of stimulation even though he showed no signs of their ill effects. 

Presently there was a knock at the door and I momentarily left Holmes to convey to the maid, in my poor French, that I desired her to bring me some hot water, clean towels and soup. Closing the door I returned to Holmes.

“I believe,” I said slowly, “that the pain in your stomach is from your lack of food, your mental state is from a lack of sleep. I know that you will protest, but I must insist that you eat something and if I am forced to, I will feed you myself. After that, you need rest. My dear friend,” I tried to take his hand but he would now allow it, “you are exhausted and must allow yourself some rest.”

To my surprise he turned to face me, his eyes red, his face tear-stained. The dark patches under his eyes were hardly an indication for the sheer exhaustion I knew that he must feel. 

“Where would I be without my dear Watson.” He murmured sleepily. 

 

I squeezed his knee in way of reply. 

There was a second knock at the door and I quickly answered it. I knew that Holmes would not permit anyone to see him in his distressed state so I took the hot water and towels from the maid beckoning her to wait whilst I placed them upon the side-board before returning to collect the steaming bowl of soup. Thanking her I closed the door, carrying the soup over to my friend.

“Will you please eat?” I asked placing the bowl beside him and holding out the spoon. He glanced at me for a moment before reluctantly taking the spoon. 

As Holmes ate I set about collecting the telegrams, letters and other papers that littered the floor. The majority I threw into the fire, watching them crumble and glow as they were consumed, others I stacked into neat piles to be sorted through a later date. 

Upon hearing the sound of the spoon being laid down, I removed the bowl placing it to one side. In it's place I presented the hot water and towels, “wash your face.” I commanded holding out a damp cloth. 

“I'm not a child.” He retorted taking the cloth from my outstretched hand.

I smiled, “sometimes I'm not so sure, Holmes.”

There was little I could do to medically to assist him and so I resigned myself to the role of nursemaid and thus I busied myself with turning down the bed-spread whilst Holmes washed away the signs of his tears. From the state of the bed I would say that it had hardly been slept in and yet I was certain that Holmes had been on his current investigations for almost three weeks. No wonder his iron constitution had eventually broken under the strain. 

Turning back to Holmes I helped him to his feet. His earlier stumbling had suggested that he was weak with hunger and fatigue and so I wasted no little time in settling him onto the bed. He lay back without protesting and hardly batted an eye-lid as I gently tucked the comforter around his shoulders. I patted his hand and bid him a good night. 

I sat back in the chair watching as my friend finally succumbed to a deep sleep, his tired features relaxing him and carrying him off to dream-land where I have no doubt there was little to trouble him. I yawned and my stomach rumbled reminding me that I too had had a long journey and had eaten or slept little in my rush to attend Holmes. Deciding that my need for sleep greatly outweighed my need for nourishment, I quickly divested myself of my jacket, waistcoat, collar, tie and boots before climbing onto the bed next to Holmes. 

Normally I would have baulked at such an intimate action but I wanted to be near my friend, to assure him that I did not think that his emotional display earlier had altered my opinion of him.

Sighing I lay back and allowed sleep to wash over me.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. a mari usque ad mare ('from sea to sea') Pslam 72:8, "Et dominabitur a mari usque ad mare, et a flumine usque ad terminos terrae" ("He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth"). Chosen because Watson literally drops everything to cross the channel to be with his friend.
> 
> 2\. In 'The Man with the Twisted Lip' Kate Whitney says “[Watson] was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such [I] had influence over him.” Reigate Squires was set in April 1887, TWIS June 1889. Despite the fact Watson doesn't marry until 1888, I'm inclined to believe that he's in practice or has private patients because after all he isn't with Holmes on this investigation. I'd like to suggest that Watson had been treating Isa Whitney for more than a year in order to have 'influence over him' and Kate Whitney later became a friend for Mary. 
> 
> 3\. 'The Resident Patient', (1886) Watson asks Percy Trevelyan "Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?" And here Trevelyan seems surprised that Watson has heard of it. I know I'm taking liberties, but considering Watson's army experiences and how he tends to harper on about Holmes' nerves and his addictions I'm inclined to think that Watson is if not a specialist in this area, at least greatly interested. 
> 
> 4\. From the various studies on left/right brain theories concerning which hand you write with (left handers look for pattens in problem solving) and also the fact that being left handed gives you a advantage in hand-to-hand combat sports (Holmes was an excellent fencer and boxer) I'd like to believe that Holmes was left handed. Jeremy Brett and Granada obviously disagree as JB was left handed, yet played Holmes as right handed using a hand double during the scenes where he has to write so we can see.


End file.
